


Stay

by princessraya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddles, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, His Last Vow Spoilers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:54:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1199919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessraya/pseuds/princessraya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary's confession about her past, John's whole world seems to be crumbling. But at least he has somewhere to stay, and he finds that being home at 221B with Sherlock again is better than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

John wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring at the wall. He half noticed Sherlock pacing around him, picking things up and putting them down again, rustling papers, muttering to himself. He was obviously trying to think of a plan, treating it all as merely another case to be solved, facts to be strung together in the right order. He clearly believed that with a bit of deduction, everything would be fine. But with that little silver thumb drive marked A.G.R.A. that still sat mocking them on the desk, John knew better. There was no going back from this. 

Taking a few more deep breaths, and scrubbing a hand over his face, John finally looked over at Sherlock. The detective was crouched on the floor, flipping through a wildly disorganized file cabinet with a look of concentration. “Sherlock.” He said softly, and to his surprise, those big eyes turned to him almost instantly.

“Yes John? Have you stopped sulking? Because while you were sitting there I remembered that-”

“Stop.” 

“What?” Sherlock frowned, looking dejected. 

“Come over here and sit down. You’re barely out of the bloody hospital and I won’t have you waltzing around running into things when you aren’t fully healed.” John’s words were simultaneously so harsh and so weary that for once Sherlock obeyed wordlessly, coming to sink down into his chair with his feet tucked under him. John could tell he was still itching to share whatever pieces of information he’d uncovered, but he stayed quiet until John sighed and closed his eyes. 

“I am aware this won’t do anything to cheer you up, as I’ve been told that finding out your wife is an ex-assassin is rather difficult for most people, but I’m happy you’re back. Despite your many small imperfections, you are a significantly better view than the kitchen.” 

John had to smile at that. It was a slightly pained smile, but it was the first one in weeks and he was glad for it. “Thank you Sherlock and…thank you for agreeing to have me.” 

“I assume you’ll be staying at least a few weeks, so I took the liberty of putting fresh sheets on your bed. Or rather I took the liberty of having Mrs. Hudson do it.” 

“Of course you did.” John snorted, and shook his head. _Oh Sherlock._ He couldn’t help thinking that despite everything, it was good to be home. With a long sigh, he got to his feet. “Well, its late. I’m going to get some rest. Don’t stay up all night Sherlock, please.”

“I’ve got some things to sort out.” Sherlock said noncommittally, “We’ll see how long they take. But if you have any nightmares, wouldn’t you prefer I stayed up? I could probably find the time to play the violin for you.”

“Who said anything about nightmares?” John stopped, turning back with a suspicious frown. 

“John, you called me a while back, remember? Just after wedding.” 

“I did?” 

“Yes. It was about 2:30 in the morning I believe. You were crying, kept saying something about me being dead.” 

“You wanker! I didn’t call you crying! You’re making this up.” John said indignantly, but he suddenly wasn’t so sure. He had been having a lot of nightmares lately. They were commonplace after the war, but with Sherlock they’d gone away almost entirely. He’d always wondered why that was, why sleeping right there next to Mary had never soothed him the way merely the soft sounds of Sherlock moving around downstairs had. 

“Yes John, I’m afraid you did. We talked for a long time. You were rather incoherent. You asked me to come over, begged almost, but I told you to go back to sleep. I assume these nightmares aren’t a rare occurrence, though you only called me the once.” 

“I’m going to bed.” John said stiffly, a little embarrassed. Not only had he called Sherlock after a nightmare, but he’d called him crying and he couldn’t even remember it! And begging? He could only hope Sherlock was exaggerating on that front, because John Watson certainly did not beg. _Well, what about the time at Sherlock’s grave?_ his mind reminded him, but he scowled, and stomped into the bathroom. 

Upstairs in his old bedroom John felt strange. Besides a little dusting, obviously by Mrs. Hudson, everything looked exactly as he remembered it. The curtains were drawn, the chair by the window still held the crumpled form of one of his jumpers he’d somehow forgotten to pack, and the photo of him in Sherlock in the country still sat beside the the lamp on the nightstand. He wasn’t sure why, but it all made him a little sad. 

He stripped down slowly, methodically, and crawled under the covers in just his pants and socks. He set his watch neatly next to the bed, switched off the lamp, and settled back for the long ordeal of falling asleep. It had become a battle, in the days after Mary’s confession, to find any sort of rest. He was angry, and sad, and lost, and none of that made for an easy time getting to sleep, or an easy time doing anything really. All he could think while doing the shopping or brushing his teeth was, _how did I not know? My wife, my bloody wife, is an assassin and I didn’t know!_

This time, however, he drifted off quicker than he expected. Perhaps it was the fact that he hadn’t slept properly in days, moving between Sherlock’s room in the hospital and an old couch at Greg’s. Maybe it was the comfort of a place he still thought of as home. But whatever it was, he was snoring softly in under ten minutes, curled up on his side. 

Not surprisingly, the calm didn’t last. The nightmare started as they always did, with Sherlock standing up there on the roof, toes mere inches from the edge. Only this time, Mary stood next to him, with a gun in her hand. When she called down, her voice carried on the wind. “I’m sorry John. I am. But you love him, and I can’t have that. He has to die.” She shoved the butt of the gun against his curls, and even from far below, John could see him shaking. 

“No!” John shouted, “Mary, please! Please don’t hurt him. I’ll do anything!” If Sherlock was shaking, John was shaking harder. The wind picked up, and the sky slowly turned dark, as huge clouds rolled in over the city. Mary and Sherlock stood poised by the edge, just tiny silhouettes against the great sky, and yet they were all of John’s life. Those two small figures, they were his everything. He tried to run. If he got up the stairs and onto the roof fast enough, he thought, maybe he could save Sherlock. But it was if the pavement had grown sticky and viscous, and he was sinking down into it. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t even take his eyes from Mary and Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry!” Marry called again, but she no longer sounded apologetic. She sounded resolved, and John started to cry. He didn’t even find it in him to be embarrassed. “Please, don’t do this.” He choked, voice painfully scratchy and small. And then the shot rang out. The little figure that was Sherlock went stiff, and then toppled forwards. For a moment, it was almost beautiful. His coat billowed out around him, and he seemed to float there, like a tired bird. Then, he plummeted. 

John woke to hands, shaking him. He was breathing hard, hair and palms and everything damp with cold sweat. “Sherlock?” He whispered, and for the first time since his nightmares of Sherlock’s death, there was a reply. 

“I’m here John. I’m here. You were merely having a nightmare.” Sherlocks voice was uncharacteristically gentle, and John found himself teary-eyed. This time, he found the self possession to be embarrassed by it, but he couldn’t stop. “Sherlock, oh god Sherlock.” He whimpered, clutching at the hands that had shaken him awake. “I…I can’t do this anymore. I…oh god it’s too much. I can’t watch you die every bloody night!” 

When Sherlock crawled under the covers next to him, John was surprised to say the least. He stiffened, that frustrating logical part of his mind reminding him, _You’re a married man. You shouldn’t be in bed with your best friend._ But Sherlock was strangely warm, and he patted John’s back, murmuring a slightly uncomfortable “There, there. You’re going to be just fine John.” And John relaxed. Somehow, that was all it took. Mary had never once been able to soothe his nightmares, but one touch from Sherlock, and he softened, curling against him. “Stay?” He whispered.

“I…shouldn’t..” 

“Please?”

“John you’re married. You chose-”

“No. This isn’t about her.” John tightened, his grip on Sherlocks fingers, that he realized he was still clutching. “This is about you. Please. Stay.” 

Sherlock’s body turned to meet him then, his free hand slipping around his waist and his lips brushing ever so softly and hesitantly against his forehead. “Of course John. I’ll stay.”


	2. Sherlock

All it took was precisely one day, three hours, seven minutes and the sensation of waking up next to John for Sherlock to realize just how much he’d missed him. Well, perhaps that wasn’t exactly correct. Sherlock hadn’t ever _not_ missed John, and he hadn’t been able to forget even the most minute details of their time together. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried. He’d spent days, forcing himself to delete every single piece of John from his mind palace. He’d sat, head bent and eyes closed, and willed himself to forget. But John had always been stubborn, and he’d refused to go. 

So no, Sherlock didn’t so much realize, as let himself remember. Let himself feel. He’d always been bullocks at emotions, but the ones surrounding John were persistent. _Protect John. Take care of John. Remember that John liked to shower in the morning, and didn’t take sugar in his tea._ He didn’t need the solar system, and he’d had to make do without a few latin texts that were bound to be important one day, but he couldn’t delete John. 

It was late morning, and he stood by the window, plucking absently at the strings of his violin. His mobile on the table across the room displayed two texts, which he knew without looking were from Lestrade, but he ignored them. He couldn’t comprehend why, but for some reason the thought of standing here watching John type with his feet up on the coffee table and his lower lip between his teeth in concentration, sounded better than any case. Even a double homicide, as made obvious by the two texts, rather than Lestrade’s usual one. 

“Are you not going to get that?” John glanced up from his screen to gesture to the mobile. “Might be a case. Not that I want you out chasing criminals when you’ve only just got out of the hospital, but you’ve been playing the same note for the past twenty minutes and I don’t think I can stand it any longer.” 

“Oh, I apologize.” Sherlock said quickly, setting the violin down with a flourish and clasping his hands behind his back. Had it really been that long? John was distracting. But with John, he almost liked being distracted. It made no sense. “It’s a double homicide. Likely dangerous. I thought it would be better to skip this one.” 

“Really?” John asked, an eyebrow raised. Sherlock reminded himself that that meant John didn’t believe him. “Since when did you learn to take care of yourself?” 

“I’m perfectly capable of attending to basic bodily needs.” Sherlock scowled. “But no, that wasn’t why I elected not to go.”

“Why then?” 

“It…” Sherlock stopped. Why exactly had he decided not to go? Because of John, of course, but he wasn’t sure of the appropriate words. Being direct was his usual course of action, but he’d found that with emotional subjects that was never quite as effective. Still, he didn’t know what else to say. “You have just recently discovered that your wife lied to you, and you aren’t emotionally stable enough to be of any assistance in a murder investigation. I could go without you of course, but as I am apparently your best friend, I have decided to stay here with you instead. Lestrade has to solve _some_ cases himself. He’s getting out of practice.” 

John stared. At first, Sherlock didn’t think much of it, slower brains took more time to process information, but after about 6 seconds he started to get worried. Had he miscalculated? Had he said the wrong thing again? He was just opening his mouth to apologize, when suddenly there were a pair of arms around his neck, and a face buried in the folds of his shirt. 

Well. That was unexpected. He blinked, and then slowly lifted his arms to wrap them around John’s waist. “John..? Why exactly are you hugging me?” He asked cautiously. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it, in fact it felt wonderful, but he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to warrant the sudden show of affection. Hadn’t John just told him he was annoying and he wanted him out of the house? 

“You’re…you’re an idiot sometimes Sherlock.” John’s words were muffled against Sherlock’s chest, but he made no move to pull away. “You know, sometimes I think I should have just told Mary to piss off and married you instead.” 

At that, Sherlock stiffened. “No, don’t say that.” He pulled away, turning for the hall, not looking back. Those words were too much. John was his weakness and if Magnussen didn’t know already he would figure it out soon enough. And that meant he couldn’t let himself get weak. He couldn’t let himself stand in the window and watch John until he lost track of time. 

_John chose Mary. He doesn’t need you, but it’s your responsibility to protect him anyway. Don’t get sloppy. Don’t let sentiment get in the way of the case. Never let sentiment win._ Sherlock had said those words to himself plenty of times, but they seemed to be working less and less. How could he not feel a little sentiment when he woke up in John’s bed, with the doctor breathing softly against his neck? How could he not feel sentiment when John said he wanted to _marry_ him, even if he knew it wan’t true? He was, he decided, getting far too emotional, and something had to be done.

Things, however, only spiraled more out of control when John put down his laptop and followed him. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?” His voice was gentle. Genuine. Perfect. _No._

“Nothing’s wrong John. I just need to do something.” Sherlock kept his back turned. It was safer. Easier to hold it together when he wasn’t looking at John, at the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and the way he held his hands like a soldier still., and his lips - _Stop. Stop it Sherlock._

“Sherlock stop acting like a child and turn around when I’m talking to you.” 

“No.” 

“Christ. Well, I…uhh…I wanted to…to tell you that I really do care about you. You seem to forget that, so I’m reminding you. And if it was as simple as that, maybe…I mean maybe I would marry you. You said you weren’t interested, married to your work wasn’t it? And god knows I denied it enough but…bloody hell I love you Sherlock.” The words tumbled out like stones, and for a second the hallway was heavy with the silence that followed them. 

Then, Sherlock chose recklessness, though to be honest choosing John had never been much of a choice. It was always John. Always. Sherlock took one last deep breath and then spun on his heel, cupped John’s face with both hands, and kissed him. He didn’t know the appropriate response to John’s confession, but he decided this would just have to do for now.


End file.
